Going with my Granddad to trim away the weeds from Grandma's headstone was one of the small summer things I did. Pulling the weeds and gathering a few dandelions to place in a jelly glass for my Grandma, then saying a prayer with Granddad. In silence, he drove me to Brown’s Store, where he would treat me to a grape soda and maybe a 10-cent kite and ball-of-string.
I had other chores to do when I got home and mom, seeing the kite, would tell me tomorrow would be a good day for flying kites… today, though, was a good day for folding clothes. Tomorrow was a few days away sometimes... Kite Hill was a bit far from home for my little legs she would say. They were certainly big enough to go to the store and get coffee for Mrs. Martin, and big enough to carry water to our garden a block away.
When “tomorrow” arrived, with other kids about, I assembled my kite with an old tie from my dad's closet for a tail. One by one we worked our way up the hill and waited for a breeze. An older kid always set off first. If he or she was successful the rest of us would hold our kites high and start the run down the hill. Wildflowers underfoot and flying grasshoppers jumping out of the way and bees causing us kids to speed up. Soon, a half dozen kites were airborne.
Red, blue, and pink kites made us proud. Who would get theirs the highest. Seeing the clouds drifting by and the blue sky was a proud sight when one's kite became a part of it. A full ball of string out, the older kids could get their kites to do tricks. Figure eights, breathtaking dives, and kissing another's kite were skills that came with practice. Some kites refused to come down peacefully and mine always seemed to take a nosedive into the ground and needed tender care to fly again... Granddad's car coming down the road signaled the end for the day. Mom would send him out to bring me home for dinner. Keeping track of time was not one of my talents.
